


Absolute

by round_robin



Series: Kinks in Your Back [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Watersports, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not about watersports,” John found himself blurting out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolute

**Author's Note:**

> As the summary says: it's not about watersports, but if anything vaguely related to that squicks you, you might want to step away.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked. All typos are mine. See a typo? I'd love to know about it.

Sherlock (idiot that he was) had managed to twist his ankle. And it wasn’t one of those “it’ll be better in a week,” kind of injuries. It was the kind where the doctor looked at you very seriously and said “twist it two more degrees, and the surgeons will be reattaching your foot.”

Crutches, let it rest. That’s what the doctor had said, and John agreed. But what did Sherlock do? Ignored the crutches (actually threw them out the window of the flat as soon as they got home) and, instead of asking John when he needed something, he went hopping around for it. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” John shrieked, throwing Sherlock back into the nest he’d made on the couch. “You nearly snapped your ankle today. Are you going for your neck too?”

“I don’t want you waiting on me hand and foot!” Sherlock growled.

John rolled his eyes and moved Sherlock’s injured foot back up onto the mound of pillows. “And that would be different from every other day, how?”

Sherlock said nothing, just dropped his chin and looked away.

Thankfully, he eventually settled down. Though he still insisted on reaching for things that were just a little too far away, Sherlock mostly stayed put. With his ankle elevated on its throne of pillows and his backside well cushioned in the nest of blankets John had constructed on the couch, Sherlock started to laze the day away. John wondered why he practically had to force him into it; usually, Sherlock loved lounging about, being waited on like he was bloody Cleopatra.

As the day went by, John kept bringing Sherlock plates of toast and cups of tea. Sherlock never asked for anything (just sat there looking grumpy) but John wanted to make sure he kept hydrated. Of course, all this hydration had a side effect.

“John?” Sherlock asked a few hours later. “Could you…” he trailed off. John looked up and saw the pinched look of forced helplessness marring Sherlock’s face. He was fine ordering people to wait on him when he was able, because then it was _his_ choice. Now, he had no say in the matter. He had to rely on John—not because John was very reliable—because he simply had no choice.

“Sherlock,” John smiled. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. Anything to keep you off that ankle.”

“Fine,” Sherlock growled under his breath. “Could you help me to the loo?”

John managed to hide his smirk quite well as he stood up and leaned down so Sherlock could get his arms around him. Once they were both standing, Sherlock leaned on him and they moved like they were in a three-legged race. “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” John said as he opened the door. They both walked inside and stopped in front of the toilet. “I am a doctor, I’ve done worse.” He chuckled to himself, placing Sherlock’s left hand on his shoulder to keep him steady and turning to look the other way. “You should hear some of what I had to do in my residency.”

“I suspect,” Sherlock said. His voice was full of that usual, cool detachment, but John could hear it: Sherlock didn’t like being dependent like this.

They both fell silent as Sherlock pulled himself from his pajama bottoms. John was already facing the other way, but he turned his head, giving more to the illusion of privacy.

After a few seconds, he heard it. The soft plinking of liquid hitting porcelain. John had been keeping Sherlock well hydrated, so the usually pungent smell of urine wasn’t as strong. John closed his eyes and could almost see it: a mostly clear stream of liquid, spurting from the tip of Sherlock’s flaccid cock, held in his lovely, long fingers.

A sudden wave of arousal swept over John. He hadn’t felt like this in a while… he didn’t know that he still—but it made sense. He hadn’t been in this situation in a while, so… yeah.

He tried to keep his feelings to himself as Sherlock finished. Made sure his breathing remained calm and even, kept his eyes closed lest Sherlock see any pupil dilation. But really, who was he trying to fool? This was Sherlock. He’d probably known as soon as they walked into the bathroom.

But Sherlock didn’t say anything. He tucked himself away again and nodded awkwardly towards the sink. John helped him there as well and continued to hold him steady as he washed his hands, this time, shifting his grip down to Sherlock’s hips.

“Do you, uh,” John stammered, letting his left hand skirt under Sherlock’s thin t-shirt. “Do you have anything pressing waiting for you on the couch?” He leaned forward to kiss the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock just smiled. “Nothing that I couldn’t shift,” he joked. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know,” John shrugged as he continued to pepper kisses over the back of Sherlock’s shoulder. “Thinking you might want to repay me in kind for all the service I’ve provided you today.”

“Technically,” Sherlock said, but he was already turning as John helped him towards the bedroom. “The sort of ‘in kind’ payment you’re suggesting makes me a prostitute.”

John smirked. “I’m alright with that.” He then proceeded to throw Sherlock down onto the bed and pull his clothes off. Though, the flurry was halted for a moment when John had to take extra care to guide Sherlock’s pajama bottoms gently over his injured ankle. When they were both suitable naked, John gingerly took Sherlock’s calf and placed his knee on his shoulder. “We have to keep this foot elevated,” he smirked.

Once all parts were suitably lubed and ready, John wasted no time getting inside of Sherlock. “Mmm, yes…” Sherlock moaned.

His hand darted down to take care of his own needs, but John batted him away. “Let me do that,” he breathed. For once, Sherlock acquiesced and reached up to tangle his hand in John’s hair.

“Yes,” John whispered. Sherlock’s fingers always felt good, no matter what part of him they were touching. Now, they were gently massaging John’s scalp, sending tingles all through his body. “Yeah, more of that,” he groaned. Sherlock complied and started scratching lightly at John’s scalp.

They went along fine for a few moments before it clicked in John’s head: Sherlock’s right hand was tangled in his hair. The hand he used when…. And he was holding onto Sherlock’s cock. Stroking it firmly as pre-come leaked from the slit. Pre-come was the body’s way of ridding the urethra of any left-over traces of urine that could damage and destroy sperm. Sherlock had just paid a visit, meaning that—

John came with a surprised yelp. He had just enough mental function left to pump his hand faster, so that Sherlock could come too. He didn’t expect it to end so suddenly…. Thankfully, John’s efforts brought Sherlock over too and they soon collapsed into a sticky pile on the bed. And somehow, John was still able to mind Sherlock’s ankle.

“It’s not about watersports,” John found himself blurting out when they both had their breath back.

“What?” Sherlock mumbled. “Oh. I thought it would take much longer for you to bring it up.”

Though he was a grown man, John still felt the need to hide the blush spreading over his face. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillows. Sherlock’s hand was on his shoulder in an instant, trying to pull him back. “John. Look at me.” John didn’t move. “I’m injured,” Sherlock said, voice flat and unamused. “If my efforts to get you to look at me aggravate that injury, you’ll never forgive yourself.” John scowled into the pillow. Damn, he was right. “Please, just look at me?”

Rolling back over, John turned and met those brilliant blue eyes. They looked back at him without a single trace of judgment or revulsion. “I don’t care what gets you off,” Sherlock said. “As long as I’m the one doing it.” John couldn’t hide his smile at that and dipped his hand down to twine his fingers together with Sherlock’s.

“It’s not about watersports,” John repeated. Whether he accepted it no questions asked, John still wanted Sherlock to understand. “It’s not like I’m going to ask you to take a piss on me.”

“That’s a relief.” Sherlock smiled. “So why don’t you tell me what it is about?”

John really didn’t like having to expose himself like this (but a year and a half in, they should probably have all their kink cards on the table by now) but this was a rare opportunity. Sherlock, for all his blinding intelligence, was usually fairly naïve when it came to what got people off. He understood the psychology of it all, of course, but ask him to understand the act itself? You might as well ask him to name the moons of Jupiter for all he knew. Moments like this—where he managed to display an extremely acute emotional intelligence learned in his time with John—were rare. There was no way John was brushing this off.

“In Afghanistan,” John began. “Sometimes, when we were out on patrol, and someone needed to go, we’d go off in pairs—one guarding the other while they went against the side of a building. Imagine it: middle of a war zone, having to go against a ruined building, cock in one hand, gun in the other.”

“It sounds intense,” Sherlock whispered.

“It was,” John sighed. He was no longer embarrassed. For some reason, his usually traumatizing memories of the war were calming him down. He wasn’t even going to try and figure out why. “And—as a soldier—you have to trust the people you’re working with, with your life. There is no higher trust that most can experience,” John didn’t need to tell Sherlock that he trusted him more. Things like that never needed to be said out loud. “And asking a man to watch your back while you take a piss after you just shot up a group of rebels? That’s trust. And it’s blinding,” John continued to whisper.

They were closer now. Lying in bed with their chests pressed together, Sherlock had hooked his bad leg over John’s hip. Keeping it elevated. And John let his fingers trail lazily down Sherlock’s back as he continued to explain something he barely understood himself.

“A man you know by last name only, and he asks you to stand at his back while he pisses?” John said. “That’s trust. Absolute trust. How can that not be sexy?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “I understand.” And John knew that he really, really did.

 

~

 

When Sherlock’s ankle was healed and they were back on cases, things went back to normal. Neither of them ever mentioned that conversation. Not until, after a particularly thrilling capture, Sherlock turned and smiled _that_ smile at John.

“You know,” he smiled. “This case has been so non-stop, we’ve been going all day.”

“Right,” John nodded, though he didn’t quite get where Sherlock was driving this. Other than into bed.

“It’s been all day,” he repeated. Sherlock reached out and grabbed John’s hand, pulling him down the hall. Towards the bathroom. Understanding hit John like a ton of bricks. “I really need to use the toilet.”

“Oh,” John whispered. His mouth suddenly went dry, but Sherlock was still smiling at him. Sherlock wanted to do this for him? What was _this_? Did he really care? Clearing his throat, John nodded. “Right.”

Fingers twined together, Sherlock pulled him into the bathroom and positioned himself in front of the toilet. At first, he wasn’t sure, but those expectant eyes kept looking at him. Gathering up his courage, John stepped behind Sherlock and put his hands on the other man’s hips. Only then did Sherlock unzip and pull himself out.

John watched the long stream of urine as it made its way down into the water, Sherlock’s moan of relief vibrating through his back to John’s chest. He had to admit, watching it from this angle was… different. Better. Sherlock was taller than him, but it didn’t impede his view. John could still see everything.

Hands moving of their own accord, John slid his fingers under the hem of Sherlock’s trousers and pushed them down until that wonderful ass was in full view. He couldn’t suppress a groan when he saw pale skin under his fingers. Cheeky bastard, not wearing any pants when they had a case….

His fingers pulled open his own trousers just as Sherlock was squeezing the last drops of urine from his body. His cheeks danced, muscles tightening rhythmically against John’s cock. “Oh, fuck,” John moaned into the back of Sherlock’s shoulder.

He started thrusting against that ass, mindlessly canting his hips forward long after Sherlock was done. And Sherlock let him. Because whatever this was, it wasn’t about bodily functions, it was about trust.

And Sherlock trusted John more than he ever thought possible.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a new series where the stories can be read in any order, they don't necessarily exist in the same universe, but they all have one thing in common: kink.


End file.
